


The Truth They Both Know

by flicked_switch



Series: Sandcastles [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Cancer Arc (X-Files), F/M, Friends to Lovers, Post-Episode: s05e01-02 Redux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 20:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20279569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flicked_switch/pseuds/flicked_switch
Summary: Having taken a bite out of the forbidden fruit, Mulder and Scully struggle to come to terms with the lines they've crossed. Set Post Redux I & II.





	The Truth They Both Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iusedtoknowwhatawishwasfor](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=iusedtoknowwhatawishwasfor).

> This story was written as a gift for iusedtoknowwhatawishwasfor (tumblr) who requested a story where "mulder and scully sleep together before she goes into remission- and then need to deal with once she does go into remission"
> 
> Since I had already written the "before she goes into the remission" for the Easter fanfic exchange, I chose to weave this story in with that work for the sake of continuity (Sandcastles in the Sky - SitS). It's certainly the most angsty thing I've ever written. While this story will stand alone, the references made throughout will have more meaning if SitS is read first (click the link to Sandcastle Series for Part 1). Continuing with the AU stage SitS sets, the timetables referenced within this work aren't entirely canon. Don't let that ruin your reading pleasure. It's not ignorance on my part, it merely meant to be fun, so let it be fun. 
> 
> A huge thanks to my beta ATTHS_TWICE and OnlyTheInevitable for creating and orchestrating this episode gift exchange.

_"You're a real piece of work; you know that Mr. Mulder?"_

_"Why is that? Because I don't think the way you think? Because I won't just sit passively by and watch the family tragedy unfold?"_

_"You're the reason for it. And I've already lost one sister to this quest you are on. Now I'm losing another. Has it been worth it? To you, I mean. Have you found what you've been looking for?"_

_"No."_

_"No? You know how that makes me feel?"_

_"In a way, I think I do. I lost someone very close to me. I lost a sister. I lost my father… all because of this thing I'm looking for."_

_"This what? Little green aliens?"_

_"Yeah. Little green aliens."_

_"You're one sorry son of a bitch… Not a whole lot more to say."_

_Redux II (5x02)_

* * *

Weeks have passed, but Bill Jr.'s words have never strayed far from Mulder's mind. While he is acutely aware of the fact that Bill Jr. is a Class-A-Dick, there is no denying the weight of his words or the lining of truth that encases them.

A better man would have walked away from Dana Scully, but Fox Mulder is not a better man. Bill Jr. had been right about that much.

From the moment she entered his office and shook his hand all those years ago, Mulder had recognized that there was something quite extraordinary about Dana Scully. So instead of treating her like the spy she was sent to be, he confided in her and peaked her scientific curiosities, engrossing her in a world that reached far beyond the accepted bounds of science. In time, his monsters had become her monsters, and the cost to her and her family could not have been higher. The death of her sister, her cancer, and her inability to conceive a child all the direct result of their work on The X Files.

While Mulder had by no means escaped unscathed, Scully and her sister had been innocent.

There was only one factor that connected them to tragedy — him.

Maybe that did make him one sorry son of a bitch, but being one sorry son of a bitch didn't change the truth. And the truth exceeded far beyond the existence of little green men, but there had been no point in trying to explain that to Bill Jr. The one person who did understand was the one person he had hurt the most, and he was no more capable of walking away from her now than he was when he met her nearly four years ago.

Scully's cancer had been the tipping point for which there had been no return.

What started out as a late-night call for assistance in removing a fitted teeshirt over a stiff and uncooperative shoulder had progressed into a weekend-long exploration and obliteration of a line they had both firmly adhered to for nearly four years.

Had it have been restricted to that night alone, it would have been easier to classify as a lapse of judgment or a product of circumstance, but what happened that weekend was neither of those things. That weekend, they had each had their fill time and time again.

No commitments or words of affirmation were exchanged, but the truth had been a poorly kept secret. The emotion that pooled in the depths of her crystal blue eyes as he watched her come undone again and again had relayed the truth to him far more accurately than words could have ever articulated, and there was no doubt in his mind that his eyes and body had returned the sentiment.

He loved her, and she loved him.

What transpired between them wasn't an ill-advised fling. It was an admission, which is why, all these months later, he finds her avoidance of the subject so infuriating. Though she has yet to vocalize her desire for what happened to remain unspoken, she hasn't had to. Her fears and misgivings have been echoed in action.

Prior to her illness, Mulder had always been the one to make the travel arrangements, but now that she has recovered and returned to work full time, she has insisted that she be the one to make them, which has translated into random seats on aircrafts and rooms that are no longer conjoined. Though the concessions made in their new arraignments have undoubtedly saved the department money, Mulder doubts very seriously that keeping the finance committee off of their backs is her only motivation for taking the reigns.

Their effectiveness as a team continues to remain beyond reproach, but there is an uneasy, awkwardness between them that wasn't there before, and it's driving him absolutely insane. The fact that he wants to touch every square inch of her body every time he lays eyes on her is not helping matters either. Now that he has had her, he can think of little else.

All of his attempts to clear the air thus far have been futile, each ending with either a pointed glance or a swift exit. As time has passed, he has slowly regressed into a bitter stage of acceptance. One where he longer pushes the envelope but also has yet to let go.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah," he replies, shifting his attention to Scully.

"You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?"

"No," he says simply. "Sorry, I was … somewhere else."

Studying him carefully, she sighs.

"Our flight leaves tomorrow at 8 A.M."

"Okay."

"Okay?" she asks, questioning him with her eyes.

Shrugging, he gives her a look of _what_ as he lowers his feet from his desk, stands, and turns to collect his things.

"I'll see you in the morning, Scully."

Mulder doesn't watch her expression as he drapes his coat over his shoulder and turns to walk out the door. The confusion, hurt, and disappointment he knows he will find there is more than he can bear, but he also can't take another rejection. If carrying on as if nothing happened is what she wants, then it's what he will do, but he's done with pretending that it doesn't hurt like hell.

Without another word, he steps out of their office, closing the door behind him.

* * *

As she watches him leave without a word, everything inside of her screams. Not because she is angry at him, but because she is angry with herself. Mulder, for once, is not at fault. He hadn't been the one to initiate sex. She had.

That night, he had tried to be the voice of reason, questioning her state of mind and what it would mean for their future. At the time, it had stung, coming across as a friendly form of rejection. She was, after all, naked and giving him permission to touch her, but even as he eyed her naked form with lustful appreciation, he had asked her if she was sure. No other man, when presented with the same scenario, had ever asked her that. The others had just taken what she offered without question. But not Mulder.

_"I think our bodies know exactly what they want, but do our minds? This can't… it can't just be a thing, Scully… you mean too much to me. I can't be your Ed Jerse. I won't survive it."_

Leaning back in her chair, Scully closes her eyes and rubs her temples. She can still hear his voice and feel his hands. The mere thought of being with him again causes her core to dampen and clench. What transpired between them that weekend was something beyond anything she has ever experienced before. The passion bottled within him had exceeded even her most erotic fantasies.

He had ensured that she got hers over and over again.

He hadn't fucked her. He had made love to her.

And what she saw in his eyes as he did had both startled and entrapped her. Scully wasn't the prude ice queen others had made her out to be. She had seen her fair share of greedy hands and lust-filled eyes. Scully liked sex, but what she had with Fox Mulder back in May wasn't sex. It was something else. Something far more meaningful and transcending — and it scared the ever-living hell out of her.

In medical school, Scully had thought she had found love. It took being with Mulder for her to realize that what she settled for was a cheap imitation. What she felt in his touch and saw in his eyes had completely erased the ones that had come before him. She knew now that nobody else would ever compare. He was it. But instead of embracing and indulging, she was running.

Hanging her head in a combination of frustration and shame, she sighs, stands, gathers her things, and heads for the door.

* * *

Plopping down on the couch, Mulder listens to the gurgle of the aquarium beside him and tries to get comfortable. He knows he shouldn't have left the way he did. He's sulking like a love-sick teenager, but the restless fury within him won't allow him to settle. He told her that he wouldn't survive being her Ed Jerse, and yet that is precisely how she is treating him.

But as he sits in his apartment alone, he recognizes that he has nobody to blame other than himself.

After Diana, Mulder made a promise to himself that he would never again become involved with someone he worked with professionally. But what he shares with Scully isn't a simple matter of involvement. It's more complex than that. It always has been, and he suspects that it always will be.

Diana left him in pursuit of her own ambitions, and Mulder had made no attempt to stop her. There had been no cursing, tears, ripped pictures, or broken glass. Her choosing her career over him had stung, but Mulder had long become accustomed to being the one that was left behind. In her absence, he had done what he has always done. He buried himself in his work, and he hadn't looked back.

But Scully wasn't Diana.

Scully was unlike anyone he had ever known — a magnet of unknown origin.

When they had leaped into the unknown, she had told him she wanted something passionate, loving, and real… something that would make her feel alive again. Yet, here he was, sitting alone on his couch, rejected and alone. Had she truly meant those things? Or had it been the cancer talking?

Deep down, he knew the truth. He suspected they both did. Perhaps that was the problem.

Tilting his head back and looking up and the ceiling, he sighs in frustration and clenches his fists. He's such a fucking coward. While she has certainly avoided his passive attempts to discuss this thing between them, he hasn't made any genuine attempt to pin her down on the issue. Instead, he has sulked and taken her changes of subject and hasty exits at the end of the workday as rejection.

He knows Scully well, and he knows what he saw in her eyes that weekend. Yet, here he is, sitting alone on his couch because he hasn't found the courage to tell her what he wants.

Scully had been bold enough to drop her towel. She had taken the first leap. Perhaps it was time for him to lead.

Having made a decision, he stands, not bothering to grab his coat or lock the door as he leaves.

* * *

When she hears her front door open without a knock, her first instinct is to panic. But her sense of panic is immediately over-ridden with irritation when she hears her name and identifies its source.

"Scully?" he says again.

"I'm taking a bath, Mulder," she says loudly, her voice echoing through the apartment.

Before she can say anything more, the door is opening, and he is coming in.

"Jesus, Mulder. What the hell?"

"We need to talk."

"Now? Here? Are you fucking kidding me?" she asks, the water sloshing around her as she draws her knees up to her chest in an attempt to cover herself.

"I think _here_ and _now_ couldn't be any more appropriate, given the topic," he says, reaching for the towel hanging on the rail alongside the tub.

The fact that he's offering her something to cover herself doesn't escape her attention, but she's too angry at his invasion of her privacy to see anything other than red.

"So, because we've had sex, that just automatically gives you permission to come into my apartment without knocking and storm in on me when I'm in the ba—"

"I used a key _you_ gave me, and I didn't knock because I feared you wouldn't answer the door if I did."

"Muld—"

"And as for interrupting your bath, I'm here to talk, not to …" he says, splaying his arms to complete a thought he has lost the courage to vocalize.

"Oh? And that makes this okay?"

For a moment, he doesn't respond, his gaze holding hers.

"My eyes have not left yours," he says finally, as if that somehow makes his invasion into her home and bathroom more acceptable.

Sighing, she closes her eyes and tilts her head down towards the water.

"What do you want, Mulder?" she asks quietly.

"I want to talk about it."

He doesn't specify what _it_ is, but he doesn't have to. The white elephant to which he refers has traveled with them for nearly six months and doesn't require definition.

"Mulder …"

"It wasn't just sex to me, Scully. I told you… I told you from the very beginning that I couldn't be your Ed Jerse… that I wouldn't survive it."

"Mulder I—" she starts to say, but he's not done.

"Was it just a distraction for you? Did it only happen because you thought you were dying? And everything you said… did you just say it because you didn't think you'd live long enough for the truth to matter?"

By the time he's done, her breathing has deepened, and tears are collecting in her eyes. But she doesn't let them fall. She holds them in check, her resolve hardening with each and every word he utters.

How dare he.

How dare he come into her home and accuse her of using him to get off because she was lonely and thought she was dying.

If he couldn't see what was right in front of him, then perhaps it was him that needed to fuck off. Not her.

"Get out."

"Scul—"

"Get. Out," she says, her tone and glare filling the room with a level of tension that doesn't invite inquisition or rebuttal.

He opens his mouth to speak but then thinks better of it, his face transitioning from a state of hurt to fury as he turns to leave.

She doesn't allow the first tear to fall until she hears the front door slam.

* * *

If he hadn't have been one sorry son of a bitch before, he certainly is now.

He had gone to her apartment intending to take the lead and clear the air, but finding her soaking in the tub had been his undoing. The discomfort and fear he saw swimming in her eyes as he stood over her and offered her a towel had foreshadowed rejection, not resolution. And with that, his resolve had crumbled. Until that very moment, he had never questioned what that weekend meant to her. But now, he is questioning everything.

Flopping down on the couch and opening a beer, he stares at the blank screen of his TV and feels more alone than he has ever felt in his life. The Mulder before Scully would have wound down with a Shiner Blok and a video from his collection, but that was Mulder before Scully. Mulder after Scully no longer found pleasure in jerking off to naughty secretaries. The dollar menu was no longer capable of holding his interest, not after having experienced what the steakhouse had to offer.

One beer turned into two and then three. After the fourth, he stopped counting.

At some point, sleep overtakes him, but he doesn't recall falling asleep or how late he was up. All he knows now is the pounding pulses of pain in his temples.

As he stirs, it takes him a moment to orient himself.

Dim hues of light flicker in through the blinds allowing him to observe the empty bottles that line the coffee table. He briefly wonders why he feels so heavy, but that becomes more clear when he rolls to his side and sees the bottles that line the floor.

_Fuck_, he mumbles, clutching his head and rubbing his eyes.

The sound of a key turning in the lock suddenly resonates, startling him into action and sending him clamoring onto the floor as he reaches for his gun on the far edge of the coffee table.

Just as his hand settles on the grip, a familiar voice echoes through the room, causing the gun to slip from his grasp and onto the floor beside him.

"Mulder?!" Scully exclaims, not bothering to close the door behind her as she rushes across the room and crouches down by his side. "Jesus, are you—"

He's not looking at her, but he can feel her taking in the scene. She hadn't needed to complete her question. The bottles that surround them tell a story that leaves little up for interpretation. Placing the dorsum of her hand along his forehead, she runs her fingers through his hair and goes through the process of checking his temperature and vitals.

"We need to get you up off the floor," she says quietly.

Nodding, he does what he can to help her as she steadies him and walks him back to the couch.

Once she has him safely seated, she takes another look around the room, brings her hand to her temple and sighs. Unable to stomach the mixture of emotions crossing her face, he drops his head in his hands and awaits whatever comes next. The ring of her cell phone breaks the deafening silence between them, delaying any further comments or conversation.

"Scully," she answers.

"Yes, sir, he's here. He's… he's not well sir. I think it's a virus of some kind or perhaps the flu… he's severely dehydrated and a bit out of it."

She's silent for a moment as she listens to their boss on the other end of the line.

Fuck, he thinks. They had an 8 A.M. flight this morning.

Braving a look over at his desk, he notes that it is now 9:17 A.M.

"I'd like to take the day as well, sir," she says.

Though he can't hear exactly what Skinner is saying, it's clear that his absence this morning has triggered a string of alarms. He likely has numerous missed calls both on his landline and cell. Calls he was clearly too out of it to hear, let alone respond to.

"I'll call in a few scripts and keep an eye on him. If he's not well enough to travel in the morning, I'll fly to Charleston alone first thing in the morning to consult on the Burgle investigation… Yes, sir. Please give the locals my regards."

Braving a look up, he finds her pivoting anxiously on her feet as she thanks their boss and ends the call. For a moment, she says nothing, holding his gaze as her phone follows her hand into the depths of her pocket.

She opens her mouth to speak but then closes it, shaking her head from side to side and sighing as she reaches down and begins to pick up the bottles from the coffee table and floor. Aside from the sounds of glass hitting glass, the room is silent.

When the minutes continue to tick by without further comment from Scully, Mulder relents, unable to take the silence and crisp air of judgment any longer.

"I'm sorry, Scully."

The heat brewing in her eyes as she turns to face him takes him by surprise. He had known she was angry, but it becomes clear very quickly that he had grossly underestimated the depth of her anger. This was angry Scully. This was pissed Scully.

"For which part?" she asks, her voice rising. "Barging into my apartment last night while I was naked and soaking in the tub and calling me a whore? Or for scaring the shit out of me this morning when you didn't show up at the airport and weren't answering either of your phones?"

"Scully, I never—"

Knowing exactly what he's about to say, she dredges on, not missing a beat.

"And before you say that you did not say or insinuate anything along those lines, I want you to think about how exactly I was supposed to translate your inquisition concerning my motives for inviting you to my bed. A decision that, apparently, you believe occurred for my pleasure and my pleasure alone. Think that over and then tell me exactly how you would have translated that conversation had our roles been reversed."

He opens his mouth to speak but then closes it.

Even with his head pounding and the room spinning, he sees her point, and she's not wrong.

When she crosses the room and opens the blinds, he folds his head back into his hands and moans, but his complaint stops there. Whatever hell she's about to unleash on him, he undoubtedly deserves, so instead of demanding that she close the blinds, he keeps his head bowed and remains silent.

Keeping track of her whereabouts by sound, he estimates that she's cleaned up a good portion of the mess he made in the living room. Though he's not exactly sure how many beers he had, his current condition and the number of clinks he has heard hit the trash bin suggest it far exceeded six. When he hears the refrigerator open, he groans again.

The sound of popping tops and fluid being poured down the drain carries across the room and is followed by a few more sharp clinks. Whatever alcohol was left, is officially gone now.

A few moments later, he hears the pitter-patter of her feet as she walks towards him and places what he assumes to be a glass of water on the edge of the coffee table in front of him. The fact that she has removed her shoes would comfort him a lot more if he couldn't still feel the heat radiating off of her body.

"You should drink some water and take these," she says, taking a seat next to him on the couch.

Her voice is quieter now but still has a crisp edge to it that warns of danger.

Raising his head a bit, he squints against the light, opening his hand to accept the pills she offers him and gulping them down with a single swallow.

Silence engulfs them as they sit side-by-side.

"I really am sorry, Scully. For all of it. You deserve better. You've always deserved better."

To this, she says nothing.

He's not looking at her, but he can feel her hesitance. It's a hesitance that lets him know that everything inside of her wants to speak, but instead, she remains silent, keeping her emotions in check as she waits.

"When you were in the hospital, your brother came and spoke to me while you were sleeping… he… he said a couple of things that have stuck with me."

"God," she moans, leaning forward to rest her head in her hands. "Do I even want to know?"

"Well, you'll be happy to know that he shares your view on extraterrestrials," he says, smirking.

Snorting, she looks up at him and shakes her head from side to side before looking back down at her hands.

"He also said I was one sorry son of a bitch."

"Mulder…" she sighs, her eyes rising to meet his.

"He's not entirely wrong, you know. Everything I touch suffers. It always has."

"That's not true," she says quietly.

"Isn't it though? You're brilliant, Scully," he says, taking a deep breath.

His eyes drift down the table to study the rings that his chilled beers left behind, but despite his pounding head and light-sensitive eyes, he keeps speaking because what he has to say needs to be said.

"And now, instead of being on track to run the FBI, you are down in the basement with me. You've lost so much… your sister… your health… all for me. For my quest. My truth."

At first, she says nothing, but eventually, she reaches across her body and places her hand over his.

"I still wouldn't change a day."

Her voice is quiet and calm, but there is an underlying wave of sadness to it that makes his stomach drop. Giving his hand a gentle squeeze, she stands and makes her way over to the corner of the room where her shoes and coat lie waiting for her.

"You're leaving?" he asks, doing little to hide the panic rising inside of him.

"Yes."

"Scul—"

"We aren't going to have this conversation when you are hungover and can barely hold your head up. You need to shower and get some sleep. I'm going to go home and do the same."

"Scully, I'm—"

"You should clean out your fridge," she says, clearing her throat. "I was scared to dig too deeply into the mystery, but something in there has either died or transformed."

Surprised by the change in subject and demeanor, he studies her movement and expression carefully, questioning her with his eyes. But Scully doesn't respond to his unspoken question. Instead, she averts her eyes, finding something of interest in the fish tank as she puts on her coat and slips on her shoes.

"I'll order you some takeout on my way home. Drinking a few glasses of water and eating something not originating from your refrigerator will help."

Mulder starts to object, but the look she gives him silences him. The fire he saw reflected in her eyes earlier has dissipated significantly, but the underlying message is still the same — to remain safe is to remain silent.

Just when he thinks she is going to leave without another word, she pauses, her back to him and her hand on the door.

"You're not a sorry son of a bitch, Mulder," she says quietly. "This would be so much easier if you were."

She doesn't turn to meet his eyes or give him a chance to respond as she steps out into the hallway and closes the door. The click of her heels and ding of the elevator serve as her bid goodbye, leaving him with only one fleeting thought.

_This_, what the fuck does _this_ mean?

* * *

The next morning, Scully finds Mulder waiting for her outside of her apartment with her favorite brand of coffee in hand. As infuriating as the man can be, he can also be quite thoughtful and charming when the occasion calls, especially when he is well aware of the fact that he is in the doghouse. She had covered for him the day before without a second thought. Even as angry as she was at him for pushing the boundaries of their relationship and demanding that she talk before she was ready, the idea of leaving him hanging out to dry in front of their boss had never even occurred to her.

To an outsider looking in, Mulder appears no worse for the wear as they make their way through security and stow their carry ons in the overhead compartment, but Scully knows him far too well to miss the heaviness in his step. He was keeping himself in check, but yesterday's events were clearly weighing just as heavily his mind as they were hers.

Mulder hadn't been entirely wrong in what he said to her two nights prior. Sure, he could have knocked first and polished his diplomacy a bit, but his underlying grievances weren't unfounded.

On the night in question, he had been the one to cool things down and question the wisdom of what she was asking of him.

_"Are you sure, Scully? Absolutely sure?"_

In response, she had reassured him in the one way she knew he wouldn't be able to resist. And because of that, he had every right to be frustrated with the silence and avoidance that followed. That point aside, he couldn't be more wrong about her motives. She hadn't invited him into her bed on a lonely night to scratch an itch. She had invited him to her bed because she wanted him and had wanted him for years.

The factor she failed to account for was the depth at which he wanted her. As he had entered her and searched her eyes, a switch had been flicked somewhere deep within her — a switch that could not be ignored or restored to default. To complicate matters even further, she had watched as the same switch had flicked within him.

The admission that passed between them at that moment had been a quiet one, but not having vocalized it hadn't made it any less significant.

Now, all these months later, Scully still finds herself at a loss for words.

In the past, continuing on as if nothing happened had served as a silent handshake of sorts — a truce between partners. But this was different. With this, there was no reverting to the way things were before. There was no longer a before. There was only after.

Selling it as anything else would be a lie. But the question currently weighing on Scully's mind isn't if her partnership with Mulder can survive a lie, it's if it can withstand the truth.

* * *

They arrive in Charleston shortly after 10:00 A.M. and are immediately ushered to police headquarters where they are brought in to observe the interrogation of Fred Burgle, a man who continues to assert that something unworldly was responsible for the disappearance of his wife and two children three nights prior. It was just the type of case Mulder needed to get his juices flowing. He knew work would not completely alleviate the tension between him and Scully, but it certainly had served to take the edge off. The hum of frustration that still lulled between them, however, had not gone entirely unnoticed.

"Lover's quarrel?" a local asked him.

Mulder gave him a sharp glance to discourage any further inquisition, but from that point forward, he made it a point to watch his body language around Scully. The last thing either of them needed was for a question along those lines to be relayed to Scully directly. She had, after all, shot a man for less.

The Burgle investigation ended up turning into a four-day excursion when the bodies of Burgle's wife and two children turned up in a landfill nearly 60 miles away with not a single scratch, contusion, or abrasion on them. This discovery was further complicated by the fact that Burgle had been in police custody during the timeframe in which the bodies were suspected to have been dumped.

The lack of forensic evidence and no apparent cause of death had not made Scully's job any easier, but that was the nature of their work. There was science, and then there was that which could not be explained.

In the end, there was little to no evidence to connect Fred Burgle to the mysterious deaths of his wife and children, resulting in him being released from police custody. But Burgle's insistence that something not of this world had taken his wife and children and his erratic behavior in the community following his release lead him straight to the psychiatric ward where he was heavily medicated and effectively silenced.

Mulder found the entire process infuriating, but with there being little to no evidence to support Burgle's claim, there was little to do other than file their report and catch a flight back to D.C.

By the time they land in D.C., it's well past 9:00 P.M. and they are both exhausted.

Given the tension between them, he's hesitant to offer Scully a ride home, fearing what the offer might infer. But to his surprise, she accepts his offer rather than insisting on calling a cab.

Mulder had anticipated something resembling an arctic blast as soon as they had landed in D.C., but rather than avoiding him, Scully appears to be biding her time.

His suspicions are confirmed when they arrive at her apartment.

Rather than grabbing her things and disappearing into the night, she remains seated, staring out the window and fidgeting with her keys as if she's contemplating quantum physics. Not knowing what to say or how to react to the change in her demeanor, he opts to remain silent and wait. Seemingly pleased with his patience, Scully turns her head and gives him her eyes.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, Mulder?" she asks.

Nodding, he shuts off the car and grabs her bag from the back seat, rounding the car to walk up the sidewalk with her and waving her off as she reaches to take her bag.

Neither one of them speaks as they enter her building. With his hands full, he follows closely behind her and waits for her to unlock the door and turn on a few lights. Not wanting to intrude beyond his welcome, he lays her carryon at the mouth of the hallway that leads back to her bedroom and then takes a seat on the couch.

The apartment is silent apart from Scully's movement in the kitchen, but instead of attempting to fill the silence. He waits.

"Hazelnut or Pumpkin Spice?" she asks from in the kitchen.

"Hazelnut."

A few more minutes pass before she appears from behind with two steaming cups of hot coffee. Setting them down on the coffee table, she moves a pillow aside and takes a seat on the opposite side of the couch, folding her feet beneath her and then placing the pillow in her lap. Once settled, she reaches for her coffee and gently blows over the surface, taking a cautious sip as she glances over the top of her cup at him.

Following her lead, Mulder picks up his cup and sips. It's too hot to drink quickly or hold comfortably, so he places it back on the coaster and leans back into the couch. When he turns to face her again, he finds her studying him.

"Do you really think it meant nothing to me?" she asks.

A bit taken aback by her directness, he searches her eyes for clues as to where her emotions lie, but she gives him nothing.

"No," he replies honestly.

"Then why ask me?" she asks, placing her coffee cup back on the table. "Why ask me a question you already know the answer to?"

Taking a moment to choose his words carefully, he continues to study her, hoping to determine where this is going, but again, she gives him nothing.

"I think… more than anything," he says carefully, "I just wanted some form of acknowledgment that it wasn't just one lonely night… that it meant as much to you as it did to me… that you felt it too."

His words, though spoken softly, pack a punch, charging the room with a buzz of electricity that wasn't there before. Mulder knows that Scully feels it too, for the tears brewing in corners of her eyes are doing little to hide the depth of emotion and longing flowing through her veins as she holds his gaze.

Leaning forward, he grabs several tissues from the kleenex box on the corner of the coffee table and hands them to her, but instead of using them to dot at her eyes, Scully picks at them, blinking back her tears as she averts her eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Scul—"

"It wasn't," she replies softly, interrupting him. "It wasn't just a lonely night."

Nodding, he swallows thickly, unsure of what to say or how he should respond.

He wants to be elated.

He wants to crawl across the couch, run his fingers through her hair, and kiss her until neither of them can breathe, but he does neither of those things. Instead, he waits.

"I did think I was going to die, but that wasn't why I… why we…"

"Had sex?" he offers.

The smirk that crosses her lips as he says it gives him the permission he needed to smile and laugh lightly and a wave of relief washes over him when her soft laughter joins his. The lightness of the moment, however, is short-lived, quickly sobering as she shifts uncomfortably on the couch.

Her admission that it meant something to her too settled him tremendously, but there is still something there. Something that she is holding back.

"What are you scared of, Scully?" he asks quietly.

She doesn't answer immediately, but she does give him her eyes as she ponders his question. Holding her gaze, he waits as she searches his eyes.

"The truth."

"And what might that be?"

This time she doesn't answer with words. Instead, she leans forward and closes the gap between them. Before he has time to accost himself for not meeting her halfway, her lips are on his, and all rational thought flees.

For the first few moments, her lips merely rest on his, but the soft, sweet tenderness of it doesn't last as their mouths begin to move in sync and passion consumes them. Within a matter of minutes, she is straddling his lap, and his hands are running along her back and through her hair. It's been months since they've touched each other, but they have by no means forgotten how.

His shirt is the first to go with her sweater following quickly after. They aren't in a rush, but they don't take their time either. When it comes time to remove the final barriers that separate them, they move to the bedroom.

As magical as the first few times had been, there was still an element of awkwardness to them. Mulder suspected that some of it had to do with Scully being uncomfortable with the amount of weight she lost following the chemo treatments. He had done everything shy of worshiping the ground she walked on, but there had still been an uneasy shyness about her as his eyes had raked over her, but tonight as he loves her, he sees no trace of the shy, insecure woman who had pulled him into bed six months ago.

When he enters her, he sees the same look in her eyes that he saw before. While neither of them is quite ready to say the words, the truth is there for both of them to see. It's a truth they both know.

* * *

Sweat clings to her body in every crevice, but she has no regrets.

No. Dana Scully is completely and utterly satisfied in the best possible way.

"Wow," he says in a voice filled with both satisfaction and awe. "It wasn't just a dream."

Chuckling softly as she runs her fingertips lightly over his chest, she nuzzles her head deeper into his embrace and smiles.

"No, I'm afraid the dreams don't quite compare."

Following their weekend of smut-filled fuckery months earlier, Scully had questioned if it had truly been as good as she remembered it being, or if she was just horny and lonely enough in the weeks and months that followed to fill in the muscle memory with fantasy.

Now, as she lays splayed across his chest completely sated, she is again reminded that fantasy and all previous notions of fantasy hadn't held a candle to Fox Mulder. While this certainly wasn't at the forefront of her mind when she invited him up. She has no regrets.

"Oh, I don't know, Scully. I've had some _really_ nice dreams over the years."

Lifting her head to meet his eyes briefly, she raises her brow at him and smirks.

"Is that so?" she asks, chuckling softly. "Do tell."

"Sometimes, I dream of being on the beach."

"Mmmm… and what's on the beach?"

"Big, beautiful, rounded, and perfectly crafted works of art."

"This is beginning to sound more like one of those videos in your apartment."

"Videos?" he asks, feigning ignorance.

"Yes, you know, the ones that don't belong you."

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

To this, she snorts, giving his side a pinch that is just hard enough to make him jump.

"Owww…"

"So what does this art you speak of entail?"

"Well, the build-up takes time, creativity, and dedication to detail."

"Oh, is that so?"

The entire time he's speaking her hands wander.

"Mmmmm… but in the end, the big picture it creates is worth the effort."

"Big, huh?"

"Well, not just any size will do. It needs to stand at least three to four feet tall to draw attention to itself."

"Three to four feet tall?" she asks, raising her head again, her eyes wide.

"The small ones are child's play, Scully."

"Okay, now I know we are talking about the videos."

"I mean, I guess you could film the process if you wanted to, but it's not something that you can do quickly. Not if you want to do it right."

"Mulder…"

"What you really need are various sizes of buckets, sticks, and shovels."

Realization dawns on her in a rush.

Her first reaction is to smack him across the chest, but she can't stop the deep laughter that escapes her when she realizes what he's actually referencing.

"Sandcastles, Mulder. _Really_?"

Laughter reverberates through him as he draws her closer, intertwining his legs with hers and running his fingers through hair.

"Well, they aren't your standard sand sculptures, Scully. They are large, elaborate and bear a remarkable resemblance to an alien spacecraft."

"I'm going to ask you to stop talking now," she says, her voice laced with sleep and mocked annoyance.

"You would like them."

"Only you would have a dream about sand-built UFOs and lump that in with erotica."

They share a laugh as their hands continue to caress. Shifting his weight, he moves to reposition them, spooning her from behind as he lightly kisses her shoulder and neck.

"I don't need erotic dreams. Not when I have you," he says, his breath tickling her neck as he speaks.

Taking his hand in hers, she wraps herself tightly in his embrace and kisses his hand.

"Goodnight, Mulder," she says softly.

"_Sweet dreams_, Scully."

Another burst of laughter erupts, followed by a playful smack, and then softer laughter.

As they slowly slip into a peaceful slumber, Scully finds herself contemplating the future — a future where she will be brave enough to build sandcastles in the sky.

* * *

A puff of smoke temporarily blocks the view of the two figures on the screen as they settle into a peaceful slumber.

"Well, this certainly changes things."

"Yes... yes, it most certainly does."

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I did that. I threw in a bit of CC, you know, for science. Bhahahaha. But, in all seriousness, I have ALWAYS thought there was more to the _lonely night_ quote in _The Truth (9x19)_ than just the shock of Scully realizing that they had been watched. The way Scully reacts when she hears that particular phrase has always suggested to me that it was a moment of significance, which would also explain her apparent certainty that he wasn't bluffing. So here you have it - my lonely night headcanon, packaged and wrapped up in the cancer arc.


End file.
